


I'll be there to hold your hand

by forgivenessishardforus



Series: First Kiss Collection Fic [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, End of the World, F/M, First Kiss, POV Bellamy Blake, Post-Season/Series 03, Speculation, season 4 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgivenessishardforus/pseuds/forgivenessishardforus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’” Clarke murmurs, her hand warm and comforting in his own. When he glances at her, her gaze is focused on the horizon, on the fires and storms of the world’s last breath. She feels his gaze, turns self-consciously to look at him. “It’s—”</p><p>“‘Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,’” he quotes back at her, voice soft. “Dylan Thomas. I know.” </p><p>His eyes catch hers, capture, hold: in her normally fierce gaze, he sees desperation, desolation, defeat. Guilt, sorrow. Fear. He knows his own eyes express the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be there to hold your hand

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT SO I had this idea a while ago to write a series of fics that all revolve around Bellamy and Clarke's first kiss. Originally, they were all going to be minifics (~200 words each) but, as usual, things got away from me. So you can consider this the first installment in a first kiss collection. 
> 
> Titles from all contributing fics come from songs that remind me of Bellarke. Title for this one is from King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men.

The western sky is lit up by fire. A boiling orange glow, neon and chemical, bright enough to wash out the stars that haven’t yet been swallowed by the wolves’ teeth of the oncoming storm. The storm clouds reach high into the sky, shaped like mushrooms, atomic bombs, the fire’s light licking at their underbellies.

From the clouds, he knows, acid rain is falling, burning and hissing through everything it touches, tree leaves and flower petals and animal hides and the bodies of those they left behind. Every few moments, the storm’s forked tongues lash out, white hot and electric, followed by rumbles of thunder that are distant now but still sound as if the earth is shaking beneath them.

Waves lap gently at the base of Luna’s oil rig, not yet tossed up into a frenzy by the storm’s hurricane winds. It’s only a matter of time—this small bubble of peace will pop before long.

Luna insisted that her century-old oil rig would withstand the acid rain, the howling winds, and they had little choice but to trust her. And after the storm had passed, they would leave, racing death across the open ocean to a safe haven that hopefully lay on the other side. Running, running, always running, never fighting. Not anymore.

The will to fight had left them. There was nothing left to fight for.

Part of him hates that, that they had fought for so long only to give in at the last, only to watch as the world crumbled around them. Part of him urges to fight on, refuses to give up as long as there are people left to save, people who still deserve a chance at life.

And a part of him that’s larger than the other two parts combined looks forward to the release of death, the peace that maybe he’s finally earned.

Footsteps echo softly on the metal flooring of the rig, and he turns just as Clarke comes up beside him. The harsh light of the swinging lanterns dances across her face and hair, illuminating an expression of quiet sorrow. She slips her hand into his, easy, and reflexively he curls his fingers around hers.

“‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’” Clarke murmurs, her hand warm and comforting in his own. When he glances at her, her gaze is focused on the horizon, on the fires and storms of the world’s last breath. She feels his gaze, turns self-consciously to look at him. “It’s—”

“‘Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,’” he quotes back at her, voice soft. “Dylan Thomas. I know.”

His eyes catch hers, capture, hold: in her normally fierce gaze, he sees desperation, desolation, defeat. Guilt, sorrow. Fear. He knows his own eyes express the same.

“It’s not over yet.” His voice lacks conviction, and Clarke’s answering smile is sad. “Maybe there’s still a way—” Not for him; his own life matters little. But the lives of their people, Octavia, Clarke—he would not give up on them. He could not give up on them.

“Bellamy…” Just that; just his name, sounding too soft and tender on her battle-scarred lips. The world had made them into monsters, and yet, the way she’s looking at him now…he swallows hard.

Her hand drifts up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the gentle touch. Then her other hand rises to land on the opposite side of his face, and he forgets how to breathe.

How is it that a moment such as this can exist at the end of the world? They’re a study in opposites, in impossibilities: Clarke’s made of soft, rounded edges under the sharp, cutting rig lights, and something inside of him calms, settles, stills as the storm destroys the earth somewhere behind them.

As the world gets torn to pieces, the broken shards inside of him mend together.

For a moment they stand quiet, his face trapped between her hands, her eyes roving over his features, an expression in them he can’t put a name to. And then—

Her lips are as cool and soothing as a healing salve when she leans up on her toes and presses them to his, a moment later. There’s no spark, no fire; behind him, lightning forks violently between land and sky and inside of him, a gentle spring rain is falling.

The kiss exists in a moment outside of time, both fractional and never-ending. She pulls away before he can think to respond, leaving a void in her wake.

“It’s not over yet,” she murmurs, “but that was for just in case it is.”

Something invisible holds them in place, ties them together. He couldn’t step out of her hands, break away from her gaze, even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

It takes a second for his mind to process what had just happened—Clarke Griffin had kissed him at the end of the world—and an uncertain look enters her eyes. She begins to draw her hands away from his face and unthinkingly he raises his own hand to press it over hers, trapping it there.

“No, don’t,” he says hoarsely. “Don’t—”

She pauses, questioning, and all words and thoughts abandon him. A desire to express to her just how much that meant to him—just how much _she_ means to him—burns through him, forcing his muscles into motion.

Ducking his head, he presses his lips against hers, and immediately her hands slip from his cheeks to coil around his neck. His own hand curls in her hair, the other going to her face, pulling her closer until there’s no space between them.

He remembers how the sun had felt on his skin for the first time, when he had stepped out of the dropship onto a planet that was vibrant with life, and that’s what kissing Clarke is like: warmth spreads through him, from his lips to his chest to his fingers and toes, and in its wake a new fragile hope blooms, springing from the dark cracks inside of him.

For the first time since standing in that throne room in Polis, he really doesn’t want the world to end. He could spend the rest of his life like this, kissing Clarke, holding Clarke, and be happy. It occurs to him that this is what joy feels like, golden hair spilling through his hands and soft lips opening beneath the pressure of his own.

It’s ironic, to learn the meaning of happiness at world’s end, but for once he allows himself to feel it, to ignore the inevitable darkness that looms on the horizon. They’re on a sinking ship and they cling to each other like lifeboats, breathe each other in like they’re oxygen-starved.

Gladly, he would put off tomorrow infinitely and live in this moment forever, but his lungs begin crying for real air; breaking away, he leans his forehead against hers. There’s no sound but their echoing quickened breaths, his heart thudding in his ears.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, the first time he’s genuinely smiled in months, stretching muscles disused and rusty. Clarke’s answering smile is a mirror of his own, and when she opens her eyes, they reflect his awe and disbelief. The whole world, trapped in her eyes. Tenderly, he brushes his thumb over her cheekbone, skin still soft despite the fires they’ve been through.

“Just in case,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos are vastly appreciated!
> 
> Find me on tumblr: @forgivenessishardforus, I'm always accepting prompts or we can just chat, if you want.


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